


five times sherlock holmes lied to john watson (and one time he finally told the truth)

by miss_frankenstein



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Oscar Wilde trials, Pining Sherlock, The Abominable Bride, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_frankenstein/pseuds/miss_frankenstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Something in Wilde’s persecution has touched a nerve in Sherlock – snapped that tenuous thread of hope holding him upright – and it feels as if he has taken to bleeding internally."</i>
</p><p>Set in "The Abominable Bride" universe, this piece adopts a familiar format to chronicle Sherlock's quiet suffering in the wake of the 1895 Oscar Wilde trials and the particular way they affect his relationship with (and feelings for) John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times sherlock holmes lied to john watson (and one time he finally told the truth)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and happy holidays, dear readers! It's been a while since I last posted anything on AO3, so I hope that you are all doing well and that you are all gearing up for the upcoming _Sherlock_ special (!!!!!!!). As of right now, only twenty days remain until we get new content! Hang in there, fellow fans - we're almost there. 
> 
> I had the idea for this after the initial trailer for the special dropped nearly two months ago (God, has it already been that long?) and only got the chance to start working on it recently; however, I really wanted to finish it up before "The Abominable Bride" airs, so that I could add to all of the fantastic Johnlock pieces being produced in anticipation of New Year's day. Working within the Victorian setting was a bit of a challenge, but a welcome one and I only hope that you all enjoy this latest effort. Happy reading!
> 
> (Also, please bear in mind that I wrote this while on a steady diet of Adele's newest album and Regina Spektor's "How," so it's relatively angsty. My apologies.)

**_v. the time he lied and said “nothing”_ **

Sherlock is having breakfast when he sees it.

Because their kitchen is nearly always in a state of semi-disarray, it takes Sherlock several seconds (an embarrassingly long time for him) to notice the morning paper lying amongst the usual pell-mell on the table. Dusted with a fine layer of crumbs (no doubt from Watson’s habitual two pieces of toast with marmalade), the headline reads: “Oscar Wilde at Bow Street.” Accompanied by a trio of purposefully mocking illustrations depicting Wilde in front of a jeering crowd, looking wretched during his trial, and even more so in prison, the article takes up the top half of the front page.  

The effect is immediate. Sherlock’s hands – in the process of stirring a spoonful of sugar into his morning tea – still immediately and he feels for a moment as if he has just swallowed ice, for his insides suddenly go very cold. He takes a moment to collect himself before reaching for the paper, pulling it toward him.

It is even worse up close. Poring over the illustrations, Sherlock absorbs the hateful expressions of the mob, the acute misery in the lines of Wilde’s face, the despondent slump of his shoulders in court. Trembling fingers moving across the headline, Sherlock unconsciously leans in closer.

It is only when he does so that he notices the faint trace of marmalade fingerprints scattered across the page. A violent ache rips through Sherlock and the sensation is so painful that he nearly forgets how to breathe.

Watson.

(No. John. His John. _John, John, John._ )

For a moment, Sherlock contemplates touching his hands to the places Watson’s had been earlier – imagines the stickiness of the dried marmalade against his skin – but ultimately decides against it.       

“What are you reading?”

Sherlock starts and straightens at the sudden sound of Watson’s voice. Tearing his eyes away from the paper, Sherlock affects disinterest and returns to his now-cold tea without sparing a glance at the man standing in the doorway. He is afraid something in his countenance will betray him.

“Nothing,” he says tightly.

**_iv. the time he lied about what he was reading_ **

In the weeks following Wilde’s trial and subsequent imprisonment, Sherlock cannot shake the faint stirring of unease in the pit of his stomach, nor can he seem to stop thinking about the unfortunate poet. The image of Wilde’s face as depicted in those newspaper illustrations rises unbidden in his mind at the most inopportune moments – interrogating a suspect, dashing through the streets of London, having dinner with Watson, lying in bed (alone, of course).

Always alone.

Unbeknownst to Watson, Sherlock begins looking into all things concerning Wilde as a sort of secret side project. He starts by purchasing a copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and reading it by candlelight in the darkness of his bedroom. Next, he invests in Wilde’s poetry, then his plays, then his essays. Usually not one for literature, Sherlock drinks up Wilde’s words with the fervour of a man parched – they seem to satisfy a thirst he never realized he had inside him and, the more he reads, the more he feels the man’s imprisonment like an open wound.

Something in Wilde’s persecution has touched a nerve in Sherlock – snapped that tenuous thread of hope holding him upright – and it feels as if he has taken to bleeding internally.

Next, Sherlock procures the court transcripts from Wilde’s trials. It is easy enough to convince the archivist on duty to allow him access to them (a simple disguise and a few stammered words about studying law do the trick quite nicely) and, within the course of two hours, Sherlock has gone over the proceedings of both “Wilde v. Queensberry” and “Regina v. Wilde.” He tastes acid in his mouth as he pores over the smug accusations hurled at Wilde – each phrase dripping with that silky legal rhetoric that crawls under Sherlock’s skin and makes him feel sick. In fact, reading through Wilde’s interrogation – seeing the way his words were twisted and mocked – is like swallowing broken glass. Ingesting the information physically _hurts._

When he finishes, there is only one thing that puzzles Sherlock.

“What is ‘the love that dare not speak its name’?” the jury had demanded. Again and again they asked Wilde this, and again and again he replied with his customary elegance. Having just read all of Wilde’s works, however, Sherlock knows for a fact that the expression does appear anywhere – not in his only novel, not in his poetry, not in his plays, not even in his essays.

Sherlock discovers upon further investigation that it is the final line in the Lord Alfred Douglas poem entitled “Two Loves” that was published in the December 1894 issue of  _The Chameleon_. Although he is not familiar with the poem, Sherlock is familiar enough with Douglas – Wilde’s passionate letters to him were used during the trial as evidence of the poet’s “gross indecencies.” Again, the memory of Wilde’s face from that illustration flits through Sherlock’s mind, his expression resembling that of a man who is in the process of watching his whole life capsize.

As always, the image is enough to elicit that sinking feeling in the hollow of Sherlock’s chest and he feels his throat burn with something that feels like blood or bile – he honestly cannot tell which.

Shuffling the pages of the transcript back into order, he returns them to the archivist who smiles and wishes him luck in his studies. Sherlock somehow musters up a smile in response.

That night, Sherlock cannot sleep. Throwing on his cerulean dressing gown, he grabs the December 1894 copy of _The Chameleon_  that he nicked from the library on his way home earlier that day and pads barefoot into the living room for a change of scenery – if he has to lie in his too-big bed and stare up at the ceiling for one more minute, he is sure he will go mad. Lighting a candle, Sherlock sits in his favourite chair and flips through the pages of the issue until he finds Douglas’ poem. Before he begins, however, he stills and listens.

All is silent.

(Not that he expected Watson to still be awake at this hour, but a touch of discretion given his choice of reading material is only wise after all.)

So, he reads. Leaning over the page, Sherlock feels a few errant curls escape the product he applied this morning and fall into his eyes. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot keep them slicked down at night – by the end of the day, his hair inevitably rebels against him. Ignoring those unruly curls, Sherlock continues to work his way through the poem.

He studies each line carefully (poetry is not his strong suit) and manages to follow Douglas’ narrative of two loves at odds with one another. The first love degrades the second by claiming that it alone is true love while the other is nothing more than shame masquerading as love. The second love attempts to defend itself and assert that it, too, is a legitimate form of love, but is denounced a liar by the first. “His name is Shame,” interrupts the first love, “But I am Love, and I was wont to be / Alone in this fair garden, till he came / Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill the hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.”

Sighing, the second love concludes the poem by replying: “Have thy will, / I am the Love that dare not speak its name.”

Sherlock stares at that final line for several minutes, the stillness of the flat – punctuated only by the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel – ringing in his ears. He is not sure if this is the way other people experience poetry, but he feels the truth of those words reverberate inside his bones, the sensation both beautiful and terrible. It is one of the few instances in which Sherlock hates the typically satisfying click of understanding in his head. In this moment, the feeling is excruciating.  

Suddenly, Sherlock hears the creak of Watson’s door (it is the only one that sounds quite like that). There is no time for him rush back to his room, so Sherlock flips to another page and waits. He listens to the soft sound of Watson’s slippered feet drawing nearer, heart thrumming insistently in his chest.

“Holmes?”

He looks up and over at a bleary-eyed Watson who is clad in matching striped pajamas. The sight makes something go soft in Sherlock’s belly and he is too tired to make himself feel guilty for it.

“Watson,” Sherlock replies evenly, keeping his voice soft but steady.

“Are you alright?” Watson asks, clearly concerned. He steps closer, coming into the dim circle of light cast by the lone candle on the table next to Sherlock. Looking up at Watson, Sherlock notes that his gaze is alert now, fixated on a point above Sherlock’s eyes.

“Quite alright, thank you,” says Sherlock a touch too formally, but Watson only seems to half-hear him. Frowning, Sherlock tries to work out the source of his distraction, but Watson ends his suspense soon enough.

He gestures to Sherlock’s curls. “Your hair,” Watson explains, a faraway look in his blue eyes, “I rarely get to see it look like that.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches at the sight of Watson’s gentle expression and he has to remind himself to smile. It comes out all wrong – awkward and gawky – but it is meant to be genuine. He thinks (hopes) Watson can tell the difference by now.

“A mess, you mean,” he quips and Watson laughs, the sound fond and warm from sleep. Sherlock smiles again and this time he is certain it comes out right.

Watson’s gaze shifts down to meet Sherlock’s own and they regard one another the way they always do behind closed doors – like both an answer and a question. It is then that Watson catches sight of the publication in Sherlock’s hands. “What’s this, then?” he asks, grinning, “Are you taking up poetry?”

“It is for a case,” Sherlock blurts out and Watson quirks a brow.

“A case? What case?”

“I did not wish to trouble you with it,” says Sherlock airily, waving away his concern, “It is dull and unworthy of your time. I am handling it.”

He sees the hurt bloom in Watson’s eyes and he realizes his mistake too late. “I see,” Watson says simply, but no, he does not see _._ _There is no case I would ever wish to undertake without you,_ thinks Sherlock, _Nothing I would ever withhold from you. Except this – this is the one thing I cannot share with you._

Of course, Sherlock says none of this out loud and remains silent. He watches Watson’s expression fall, clearly waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sherlock does not have one. He does not know what else to say.

“I shall leave you to it, then,” says Watson, nodding and trying for a smile, but Sherlock sees that it is forced. He watches Watson turn and walk back to his bedroom, stepping out of the light and once more into the shadows.

And in his head, Sherlock hears that second love whisper to him again and again: “I am the Love that dare not speak its name. I am the Love that dare not speak its name.”

 

 ** _iii. the time he lied about where he was_**  

Closing the door to 221B behind him, Sherlock leans against the cool wood for a moment to collect himself. Inhaling shakily through his nose, he brings trembling hands up to smooth down his hair and readjust his tie, heart still hammering wildly against the confines of his chest. He hears the sound of Watson upstairs in the kitchen, the distant clink of cutlery indicating that he is eating supper. A late supper. Drawing forth his pocket watch, Sherlock registers the time – just half past nine. He has not been gone that long.

He should not have gone at all.

Sherlock does not know what possessed him to frequent Moorfields this evening. After the Wilde trial, the side street is now known to the general public for its facilitation of a particular kind of sin, but that had not stopped Sherlock from taking a hansom to Silk Street and walking the rest of the way there. He had gone in disguise, of course, and had planned on simply walking from one end of the street to the other. Nothing more, nothing less – simply an exercise in abating his curiosity.

Of course, Sherlock knows _exactly_ what pushed him to take this risk. It was Watson’s admission this morning over breakfast that he was courting someone new.

“Who?” Sherlock had asked sharply.

“Miss Mary Morstan,” Watson had replied, eyes resolutely fixed on his cup of tea.

Sherlock had said no more on the subject.

It had been torture spending the day in Watson’s company – Sherlock could feel his presence on his skin no matter where he was in the flat. He tried conducting experiments, he tried playing the violin, he even tried mending a tear in his favourite dressing gown, but gave everything up. No matter how hard he tried, Sherlock could not will himself to concentrate on anything but Watson and his relationship with this Miss Mary Morstan. Thoughts of them strolling hand-in-hand through Hyde Park, exchanging secret smiles, and whispering promises of love filled Sherlock’s mind and finally, around seven o’clock in the evening, he made the decision to go out.

He had been in the process of putting on his coat when Watson asked him where he was off to.

“Nowhere in particular,” Sherlock had answered before shutting the door behind him.

He had found himself on Moorfields nearly an hour later. Sherlock remembers smelling the fear in the air the minute he stepped onto the cobblestone, the gazes of the men lining the street skittering over him cautiously as he walked past. He had nearly reached the end of Moorfields when Sherlock felt the gentle touch of someone’s hand on his arm.

Whirling around, he had found himself face-to-face with a young man with warm brown eyes and a kind smile. Roughly the same age as Sherlock, the man had sandy blond hair (like Watson) and a clean-shaven face (unlike Watson).

“Beg your pardon, sir,” the stranger had said, “But you look a bit lost. Are you in need of some directions?”

Heart suddenly in his throat, it had taken Sherlock a moment before he remembered how to speak. “Not lost, thank you,” he replied and the man’s eyes alit with hope. “Simply in a hurry,” Sherlock had amended quickly.

“Ah,” the stranger had said, face falling as he nodded his comprehension, “My deepest apologies, sir. I misunderstood your intentions.”

The disappointment that flitted across the man’s features had made something twist in Sherlock’s gut and he spoke without thinking. “No, I –” But he cut himself off, heat rising to his cheeks. “No need to apologize,” he said at last and the stranger had smiled up at him gratefully.

Sherlock recalls the small moment of understanding between him and the nameless gentleman that followed – their exchanged look of compassion tinged with pity. Before he left, the stranger had taken Sherlock’s bare hand in both of his own, giving it a comforting squeeze as he said, “Should you ever find yourself truly lost, I would be happy to walk you wherever you need to go. You are welcome here anytime, sir.” Then, he had pressed his lips to Sherlock’s palm in a chaste yet firm kiss.

Sherlock can still hear the sound of his own sharply drawn breath, still see the sympathetic smile the man addressed him before releasing his hand and walking away, still feel the hard cobblestone under his feet as he hurried to the end of the street and ran until he found a hansom to take him home.

Now, back in his and Watson’s flat, Sherlock brushes his fingers over the place the stranger kissed. It had been the first time anyone – let alone a man – had ever touched him in a remotely intimate fashion and he feels a contrariety of emotion war within him, his mind a hailstorm of conflicting thoughts. The one thing Sherlock can pick out amongst his inner turmoil, however, is that he wishes it had been Watson’s lips on his hand, the feeling of his mouth on Sherlock’s skin a memory rather than a dream.

Eventually, Sherlock climbs the stairs and strides into the living room as if he has just returned from a commonplace errand. He collapses into his armchair and steeples his fingers, preparing to enter his mind palace when –

“Where were you?”

Watson’s voice is neither accusatory nor cross, simply concerned.

“Nowhere in particular,” Sherlock answers before closing his eyes.

 

**_ii. the time he lied and said “no”_ **

They are on a case when Watson asks Sherlock a dangerous question.

They discovered early in the week through a particularly skillful display of eavesdropping that the suspect they have been following for the past month would be attending the annual spring ball at the Royal Opera House tonight. It only took Sherlock a matter of hours to secure invitations through a connection of Mycroft’s and here they are – dressed in the finest suits they could procure on such short notice and introducing themselves as Lord Henry Wotton and Basil Hallward.    

“Where did you come up with those names?” Watson had asked when Sherlock told him their aliases for the evening, clearly unaware of their literary origins (Henry and Basil, of course, are both from Wilde’s _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ ).

“Must have read them somewhere,” Sherlock had replied, shrugging.

In order to avoid recognition, Watson had shaved off his habitual moustache and Sherlock had let his curls to go free for the evening – it is enough of a difference from their trademark look to throw off any avid followers and it allows them to slip into the ball unnoticed.

“I do not like this, Holmes,” Watson had muttered to him upon entering the building, bringing his lips close to Sherlock’s ear to be heard above the babble of the crowd, “I look too much like myself.”

“The art of hiding in plain sight, my dear Watson,” Sherlock had murmured in response, permitting himself to touch a comforting hand to Watson’s shoulder and delight in the warmth of the other man’s breath in his ear.

They spend the first half hour of the ball affecting the bored geniality of high society whilst surreptitiously keeping tabs on the suspect, never letting the man in question out of their sight. Of course, when the orchestra launches into a waltz, he is the first to lead the most beautiful debutante of the day onto the dance floor.

“He certainly fits the part of a scoundrel,” Watson comments drily, observing the suspect’s tight grip on the girl’s waist and his fearsome leer.

“Indeed he does,” Sherlock replies, feeling a faint glow of relief when the waltz ends and the suspect is forced to release the young woman. She bows and smiles, thanking him quickly – going through the motions of propriety like clockwork – before scurrying back to her parents.

Soon, a quadrille fills the air and it is in the midst of its opening notes that Watson poses his question.

“Did you ever learn how to dance, Holmes?”

Sherlock is immediately wrenched out of his dreamy state of observation – he had momentarily allowed himself to get swept up in the elegance of the music and the intricate figures of the dance. Looking over at Watson, he feels an inexplicable knot form in his throat.

Of course he knows how to dance – he and Mycroft both learned as children. It would not have done to raise the pair of them without proper instruction in all of the social graces expected of the Holmes family. Their dance tutor, Mr. Charles Shelley, visited them every Friday afternoon from the time Sherlock was ten until he was eighteen and schooled the two brothers on all things regarding posture, musicality, and steps. Mycroft, naturally, was an absolute nightmare, his body stiff and limbs hopelessly uncoordinated. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been a revelation. Mr. Shelley could present him with a mazurka, a cotillion, or a gavotte and Sherlock would take to every style almost immediately, spinning about the room with assurance. He mastered each dance on a technical level yet somehow managed to make every move look oh, so fluid and entirely natural.

Those Friday afternoons from so long ago are among Sherlock’s happiest childhood memories. “I do so love seeing you dance,” his mother used to say to him, “It is one of the rare occasions I get to see you smile.”

Sherlock has not danced in a long time now. Not properly anyhow. He goes over the steps to various dances every so often in the safety of his bedroom, bare feet gliding across the floor, arms holding nothing but thin air. And when he closes his eyes, he imagines –

( _He imagines strong fingers interlaced with his, the warm weight of a hand on the small of his back, the gentle press of a firm body against his, and familiar blue eyes gazing up at him as they dance in the silence of their flat._ )

Swallowing, Sherlock realizes that several seconds have ticked by and Watson is still waiting for an answer to his question.

“No,” he says abruptly, “No, I never learned.”

 

**_i. the time he lied and said “yes”_ **

It is on a sunny afternoon in May that Sherlock’s world promptly falls apart.

“I proposed to Miss Morstan this morning and she accepted my offer of marriage,” Watson tells him stiffly, “We are to be married in the fall.”

He and Sherlock are sitting in Regent’s Park after investigating a suspect’s alibi, the sky blue and surprisingly devoid of clouds. The air is warm and alight with laughter and song – husbands and wives out for a stroll, children frolicking in the nearby fountain, birds flitting through the air – yet these sounds of joy are presently incomprehensible to Sherlock. _How can they possibly be happy?_ he thinks dully, _How can they smile and laugh so when John Watson is to wed Mary Morstan?_

“Ah,” is all Sherlock manages in response, the single syllable coming out like a pained exhale. It may as well be, for it feels as if he has just received a blow to the stomach.

Neither of them can bring themselves to look at the other.

“I believe that we are well suited,” continues Watson, “She is accepting of our adventures and is fond of you.”

A miserable smile tugs at Sherlock’s mouth and he turns toward Watson then. “Are those your two requisites for a blissful union?”

It looks in this moment as if Watson is on the verge of tears, but Sherlock attributes this to a trick of the light. “A reasonably pleasant one, at least,” he answers, the shadow of a grin playing on his lips.

Sherlock nods, processing this. “She –” He falters. “She makes you happy?”

Watson sighs, choosing to ask a new question instead of answer Sherlock’s. “Tell me, Holmes,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice, “Do you think I made the right choice?” He bores his gaze into Sherlock’s, blue eyes pleading.

For a few seconds, the only word Sherlock can seem to remember is _no, no, no_.

“Yes, of course, my dear Watson,” he says finally, nodding again. “Yes, of course.”

**_(the one time he finally told the truth)_**

“Little use – us standing here in the dark. After all, it is the nineteenth century.”

Watson strikes a match and the outline of his face is immediately illuminated in an orange glow, the fire dancing in his eyes. They are waiting in the ruins of an abandoned church on the outskirts of London for the ghost of Mrs. Ricoletti to reappear – Sherlock received word from one of his irregulars that she was seen floating amidst these crumbling stone pillars last night, everything from her smeared lipstick to her tattered wedding dress described in perfect detail. After deeming this a credible sighting, Sherlock had enlisted Watson in a stakeout to see if Mrs. Ricoletti – or “the abominable bride” as she is being called in the papers these days – would grace this location with another appearance tonight.

Before Sherlock knocked on Watson’s door earlier today with this new information regarding the Ricoletti case, it had been a whole week since they last saw one another. Watson, of course, moved out of Baker Street following his nuptials in September and, although he and Sherlock see each other nearly every week to work on cases together, it is not the same. There is something in the air between them that feels different – a kind of unspoken tension. Sherlock felt this shift take place the moment the door closed behind Watson and he was left alone in _his_ (no longer _their_ ) flat. He feels Watson’s absence in his life like a scalpel lodged in his heart, feels it every time he shifts, every time he breathes. It is even worse when they are together, for Watson’s sudden proximity after days spent apart is almost too much for Sherlock.

Consequently, he takes to limiting their encounters to strictly casework, limiting the amount of times he allows himself to look at Watson when he sees him, limiting the number of words he says to him. Sherlock knows how much his behaviour pains Watson. How could he not? He can deduce a stranger’s life from a frayed sleeve and a chipped tooth, so it stands to reason that he can gauge the feelings of the person he knows best in the world from little more than a second in his presence.

He senses that unspoken tension now - Watson’s hurt and frustration is palpable and Sherlock feels it like a kind of electricity crackling in the air. They wait in silence, the solitary flame from the match in Watson’s hand flickering in the cold December wind, the breeze whistling through the collapsing archways and cracked stained glass windows surrounding them. Shifting in his coat, Sherlock rubs his gloved hands together and risks a glance at Watson only to find those blue eyes already on him.

Sherlock looks away immediately.

More silence. Until –

“What made you like this?”

The question is unexpected and it catches Sherlock off guard. He looks over and finds himself staring into the anguished face of his best friend, Watson’s features contorted into an expression of abject misery. Despite this, his voice is hard with barely repressed anger and Sherlock is struck speechless by the intensity of it. He never thought – never dreamed – that either of them would ever dare address the awkwardness between them and is thus unprepared to answer Watson’s query. Not truthfully anyhow.

“Oh, Watson,” he replies, attempting to gloss over everything with a smile and a joke, “Nothing made me. I made me.”

“You know perfectly well that it is not what I meant.”

Sherlock falls silent again, heart hammering.

Sighing, Watson fixes him with a look not unlike the one he addressed Sherlock all those months ago in Regent’s Park – the one tinged with desperation. “What made you – what made _us_ – like this?” he clarifies, voice dropping to a whisper. “What happened to us? We never used to be like this – we used to talk and laugh and actually look at each other. It feels as if we have not properly looked at one another in months.” At this, Sherlock instinctively drops his gaze. “Holmes,” Watson bites out, “Look at me.”

The wretchedness of his plea makes Sherlock raise his eyes to Watson’s and they stare at each other for a minute that feels like years. Sherlock has not let himself look at Watson with such abandon in months and it feels like nothing short of a luxury.

But still, Sherlock cannot bring himself speak. He simply continues to stare in silence, mouth slightly agape and breathing ragged.

Something softens in Watson’s countenance as he watches Sherlock’s face. “Tell me, Holmes,” he murmurs gently, “Tell me what it is that is bothering you.”

Sherlock shakes his head tightly. “No,” he manages, the word coming out strangled.

“You can trust me,” says Watson, reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand and clasping it firmly in his, “Just tell me the truth.”

In his head, Sherlock sees the image of Oscar Wilde’s face in the paper, feels the lips of that unknown gentleman on his skin, hears the final line of Douglas’ poem blur with the opening notes of the quadrille and the sound of birds singing. And among it all, Watson’s voice asks him question after question: “ _What are you reading? What case? Where were you? Did you ever learn how to dance? Do you think I made the right choice?_ ” The words slowly fill Sherlock’s mind until he drowning, choking on his silence, on his lies.

_What are you reading? Nothing. What case? I did not wish to trouble you with it. Where were you? Nowhere in particular. Did you ever learn how to dance? No, I never learned. Do you think I made the right choice? Yes, of course._

_I am the Love that dare not speak its name._

_I am the Love that dare not speak its name._

_I am the Love that dare not –_

Suddenly, everything in Sherlock’s brain goes quiet when he finally realizes that Watson is still holding his hand. Focus narrowing to this one point of physical contact, he slowly tightens his grip on the fingers clutching his and takes a gulping breath of air.

“John,” he says so very softly and the name on his tongue tastes like freedom, so he repeats it. “John,” he whispers again, “I have done everything in my power to fight this and tried my utmost to change the way I feel, but have failed horribly.” Faltering for a moment, Sherlock briefly contemplates stopping there and fleeing, but the fragile expression on John’s face roots him to the spot. A nearly incapacitating wave of hope swells in Sherlock and he finds the courage to continue. “For some time now,” he murmurs, “I have found myself to be completely and utterly in love with you.” He pauses before adding quietly, “Rather hopelessly so, in fact.” 

For a moment, neither of them moves and Sherlock swears his heart stops beating as if it, too, is waiting for John’s response.

Then, John drops the match and the last thing Sherlock sees before they are plunged into darkness is the flash of a genuine yet watery smile spreading across his face.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his other hand suddenly cupping Sherlock’s cheek, “I love you. My God, I love you. I have always loved you.” But Sherlock is not given the time to process this because John’s lips are suddenly brushing against his and he forgets everything from the case at hand to his own name.

Barely daring to move for fear of this moment shattering around him, Sherlock shuts his eyes and feels the warm slide of tears on his cheeks as he does so. He wills his mind to catalogue every detail – the feel of John’s mouth pressed to his, the taste of John’s breath on his tongue, the tickle of John’s moustache against his upper lip, the warmth of John’s hand on his face, the strength of John’s fingers clasping his, the proximity of John’s body. They have never been this near and, overwhelmed, Sherlock feels his tears rain down unchecked.

 _Sentiment_ , he thinks absently, but cannot seem to muster the appropriate amount of disdain.

As of its own accord, Sherlock’s free hand fists itself in the material of John’s coat, pulling him closer still. They continue to kiss tenderly – lips gliding over one another slowly, softly, reverently as John continues to whisper “I love you” over and over again into Sherlock’s mouth – and it is everything Sherlock ever allowed himself to imagine.

No, it is more. Far, far more. Of course it is.

Eventually, they part, but remain close – so close that Sherlock can still feel the heat of John’s skin on his own, inhale every breath that John exhales. Sherlock notes that he is trembling; however, when he registers that John is, too, he feels all traces of embarrassment melt away. They remain like this for what feels like a very long time, huddled together against the cool December air, foreheads touching, noses brushing, fingers still clutching at one another.

Finally, it dawns on Sherlock that they cannot stay here forever. In fact, they must resume their lives – their lives apart – and rejoin the crowds of London with their prying eyes and hard hearts come morning. The thought alone makes Sherlock want to be sick and he is suddenly withdrawing his hands from John, frantically removing his gloves and throwing them to the ground.

“Sherlock –”

But then Sherlock is touching John’s face – warm fingers ghosting over cold skin – and urging his brain to commit even more to memory. He runs his hands through John’s hair, brushes his thumbs over John’s lips, and traces the structure of John’s face, creating a mental map he can return to in the future.

Sherlock is in the midst of estimating the angle of John’s jaw when John lays his hands over Sherlock’s, stopping him mid-calculation.

“No, John –” he begins, panicked.

“There is no need,” says John gently.

“But there is.”

John shakes his head. “No, Sherlock, there is not,” he assures him, interlacing his and Sherlock’s fingers and bringing their joined hands to his chest. “This is a beginning and not an end. Do you understand me? I do not intend on letting you go now that I know you feel the same as I do.”

Sherlock swallows with difficulty, throat thick with emotion. “I cannot have you risk everything for me,” he counters, “Because that is what you are doing if we continue. It is asking too much of you.”

“ _You_ are everything to me,” John replies fiercely, “And you are not asking for anything that I am not willing to give. I do not care about the risk. Hang the risk! This is worth it. We are worth it.”

A million responses urging John to see reason crowd into his mouth, but Sherlock cannot bring himself to voice a single one of them. He wants this – has wanted this for too long to throw this opportunity away within minutes of finally having it within his grasp.

After all, if anyone could possibly fool the public, who better than the most intelligent man in London and his brilliant biographer? They have the power to weave their own narrative. And despite the fact that the path upon which they are about to embark is fraught with danger, Sherlock is not strong enough to choose another. Especially if John is willing to walk it with him.

A tentative smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth and he squeezes John’s hands. “Hang the risk then,” he murmurs and shakes his head in wondrous disbelief, “I should have known you of all people would never shy away from danger.”

A grin splits across John’s face at this, his eyes infinitely gentle. “You warned me from the beginning,” he says, “You told me it would be dangerous.” John shrugs, emitting a low laugh. “And yet here I am.”

“And yet here you are,” Sherlock echoes before leaning forward to kiss John again.

**Author's Note:**

> And... as you can see, I just cannot seem to bring myself to give these two a sad ending. They have suffered for long enough! Let them be free and love each other. 
> 
> Also, if any of you are curious about any of the historical context mentioned in this piece, you can check out these links for more on the Oscar Wilde trials (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde#Trials), see the newspaper illustrations referenced throughout (http://www.bl.uk/collection-items/oscar-wilde-at-bow-street-newspaper-coverage-of-the-oscar-wilde-trial), read Alfred Douglas' poem (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/two-loves), and learn about Moorfields (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molly_house#Molly-Houses_and_homosexual_subculture_in_London).


End file.
